My daughters have almost nothing to do with this book, but they’ve enriched my life so much that I’ll tell anyone willing to listen about them. Case in point.
And none of this would be possible without my wife’s support. From her words of encouragement to her tolerant sighs when I’ve neglected a to-do list to write just one more scene, she makes my work possible. Thank you, Becky.
The Rose Tunic was the only tavern in the town of Dayle, though “tavern” was a bit of a generous term for an old barn with a keg and a pile of hay for sleeping. Then again, referring to a smattering of fishing huts clustered by a lake in the Pinefells as a “town” was more than a little indulgent as well. But the old men of the town, which is to say, the entire population of Dayle, were a generous sort, especially when they’d been drinking. Which was usually the case.
The libations had been flowing freely the night that Bartimus Jakes kicked in the door of the Tunic one summer night. Wind and rain swept in as the old fisherman led a figure with an odd gait into the common room. The cause of the strange walk soon became apparent as the figure unfurled its wings and looked about in a panic.
“Bones!” swore Kelder Dain. The old Halfling leapt from his stool. “Is that a bloody Great Eagle?”
The eagle squawked.
“It ain’t one of Gregor’s chickens, is it?” growled Bartimus. “Come and help me get him inside.”
“Well, what’s it doin’ down here?” asked Tall Sven with justifiable bewilderment.
“It’s hurt and it’s scared,” said Bartimus. “Beyond that, I don’t speak Eagle.”
“Don’t need to talk to see what it needs,” said Fergus Ur’Bolan, the Tunic’s proprietor. “Come here, lad, let’s get you by the fire.”
The eagle screeched again. Its eyes darted around the room, but it allowed the old barkeep to usher it over to a crude fireplace set in the side of the barn.
“There now. Some heat and fish’ll do you good. And if eagles take grog, you’ll have that too,” said Fergus.
“He seems pretty worked up over something,” asked Bartimus. “Don’t suppose anyone here speaks Eagle?”
“Girion does, if I recall,” said Dwarven Sven.
“Who?” asked Kelder.
“The young Human fellow,” said Dwarven Sven. “The ranger. Patrols the woods north of the lake.”
“I bet you’re right!” said Tall Sven. “I seen him talking to animals lots.”
“Yeah, but does he understand ‘em when they talk back?” asked Kelder.
“It’s the best chance we got,” said Bartimus. He looked out the window at the clouds swirling ominously overhead. “We’ll set out once the storm clears. But that might not be ’til morning.”
The eagle screeched.
“Now, now, easy does it,” said Fergus. “You stay as long as you need by the fire. And tomorrow we’ll take you to the nice ranger and see what this is about, eh? We’ll sort this all out. You’ll see.”
They didn’t.
When the fishmonger’s ice cart came for its weekly pickup three days later, the driver found nothing left of Dayle but ashes and charred support beams. A report of the damage indicated that the fire wasn’t caused by lightning or an accident. Additionally, several travelers on the road from Andarun to Scoria claimed to see a flying, reptilian shape headed north on the evening of the storm. The Heroes’ Guild and the Zoological Society of Monchester released a joint report attributing the town’s destruction to the Dragon of Wynspar. Shares of the dragon’s hoard rose a tenth of a percent on the news.
Son of a Liche Page 64